The Toilet Gas: Toilet
by Rose Bloodthorn
Summary: What Twilight is to me. Be prepared for a universe full of silliness. No offense is intended to the Quilayutes in calling them Quillpoos. Twilight lovers, hold on tight! Twilight haters, shout in glee!


The Toilet Gas: Toilet

A/N: Twilight lovers, _BEWARE!_ Twilight haters, smell the stench of _VICTORY!_

Disclaimer:

"What was I going to say?" I ask, shaking my head. suddenly, a crazed blonde lady runs on stage.

"You _RUINED_ my story!" she shouts, her face red in fury. But I don't hear her as I'm sticking a q-tip in my ear. It comes out the other one, just like her drivel.

"Huh?" I ask absent-mindedly.

"_MY_ _STORY!"_ she snarls, her saliva pouring out her open maw and flying into my face.

"Hay! Aren't you the loco who wrote that toilet crap?" I ask, comprehension dawning.

"No, that was _YOU!_ I wrote _TWILIGHT!"_ she shrieks, shaking me violently. I push her away.

"Oh, _THAT_ was what I was going to say. Thank you, Miss Meyer." I say sweetly. The blonde screams some more and runs offstage.

"Right then. I so solemnly declare that the Twilight Saga is owned by Miss Stephenie Meyer. The Toilet Gas, on the other hand, is owned by me, Rose Bloodthorn."

WARNINGS:

Prepare for a simply cracked storyline filled with a fair amount of crudeness and crassness with a lot of silly bathroom and gross-out humor. Do not eat, drink, drive, or be in class whilst reading this. You have been warned. I, Rose Bloodthorn, esteemed author, am not liable for any accidents that might occur whilst reading this fic. Do enjoy yourselves and leave me a cookie in form of a review. Flames will be used to heat my barbecue

Chapter One: Welcome to Farts

"Oooh, I'll miss you so much. Do you really have to go? Do you truly? You don't have too." my mother, Nay Dryer, gushed as she wrapped me in a stifling hug.

"You know I've got to, Mom. You go on and have fun with Frill. I know that you've been wanting a beauty queen in the family for ages. You and I and Dad were too ugly but Frill's so _pretty._ He'll need you for his pageants; I'll just get in the way. I mean sure, I hate Farts and I think it's a total cesspool and I wish Dad lived in Greenwitch or something but I guess I'll live or whatever. Plus, everyone knows that something totally cool is going to happen to me there." I responded. NAY nodded, teary-eyed. She looks a lot like me: almost translucent skin with bulgy veins, a short stature, and dirt-colored hair. But she's got a lot more wrinkles than I do and her hair's a mess of short friz instead of long tangles. With a final hug, Nay left me alone. Sighing, I waved a hand in my face. It's so, sooo hot in Flatulence, Aaryuzitta. I'm wearing my favorite shirt, a white tank-top with pit stains. But, in Farts, it's always cold and sleeting. So I'm carrying a thin parka with me because I'm stupid like that.

"Last call for Beta Airways flight 666 to Diablo Docks, Washingtub." came over the intercom. Looking around the airport for a final time, I boarded the plane.

A few hours later, we were touching down in the Diablo Docks Airport. As I went to the baggage claim, I became lost in my thoughts. I never thought I'd have to come to this dump again. I hated Farts so much that, after I turned twelve, I stopped going on month-long visits their in the summer. Instead, I made my father, Gnarly, take me to the town of Greenwitch Village, New Dork, for two weeks. I love it there. You get to eat a bunch of foreign food that makes you sick and listen to neo-bards and musicians try and pedal their crappy compositions for a few pennies. And don't forget the fabled greenwitch who's said to eat anybody who enters her town with any good looks or true talent. Ah, the most supernaturally active town in the country... or so I thought.

Grabbing my old, battered suitcases, you know the type, the ones that are covered in resin or plastic or whatever, as well as my wooden steamer trunk, I made some dude put them on a trolley. I then exited to the parking lot and looked around for my dad. I saw him immediately. He's not that hard to spot. He's the chief, and only, plumber of Farts and he always drives around in his work truck. I couldn't help but shudder, I'd have to get my own car soon.

"...Smells..." he said awkwardly, giving me a hug. I dug my face into his shoulder and inhaled his familiar scent. That smell of shit and baby wipes and vomit that characterizes him. I looked into his eyes, the same shade of chicken shit brown mine are, and knew he was glad to see me.

"Hi, Dad." I grinned. The two of us got into his truck and we began the hour drive to Farts.

"So... I was thinking... you need a car." he said at length.

"I know..." I responded. Neither of us are what you'd call chatty. Dad's only companions are his toilets and sinks and pipes and me... well... Nay never let me get a word in edgewise.

"So... I got you a surprise..." he said nervously.

"_WHAAAAAT?"_ I screamed, grabbing my father by the shoulders. "I _HATE_ surprises! Surprises are _STUPID!_ Surprises are _POINTLESS!_ Do you know me at _ALL!"_ as I shook him, the truck swerved to and fro, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. It's a good thing my father's such a valued member of society. If they jail him, who the hell will they get to clear the lumps of hair and snot and the occasional wedding ring from the sink drains?

"Whoa whoa! Calm down, Ismella Curry John." Dad said, trying to pry my hands off his shoulders.

"Calm down? Calm down? You got me a surprise and you expect me to _CALM_ _DOWN?"_ I screeched.

"It... it's only a car, Smella." he said weakly.

"Oh... that's okay then." I said with a smile, removing my hands and putting them back in my lap. "So, what's it like? What kind is it?"

"It's... well... it's a good kind." he said.

"_WHAT_ _KIND!"_ I thundered.

"Um... well... you remember my friend, Willy Flack, right?" Dad said.

"You mean that Quillpoop dude, right?" I asked.

"Quilayute, Ismella." he corrected.

"Whatever." I retorted.

"Anyway, Willy's in a wheelchair now. He can't drive his car anymore." Dad explained.

"Would the reason he's in the chair happen to be that the thing gave out on him and he crashed it?" I asked sharply.

"...That's beside the point, Smella." Dad said sternly. "Anyway, Willy's son, Jackoff, worked on fixing it. They sold it to me for a good price."

"Isn't Jackoff, like, twelve or something?" I asked.

"Fifteen." Dad responded.

"Whatever. I'm game, I guess. I'm all for death-defying stunts anyway. Oh... I wasn't supposed to tell you that." I said, covering my mouth.

"Say something, Smells?" Dad asked me.

"Nothing, nothing at all." I said innocently. "So what's this car again?" I asked.

"Um... a 1957 Chevy Nogo." Dad informed.

"Neat! I'll be driving the only Nogo owned by an English person. Did you know, they almost named it Nova? That's no go in Spanish. Chevy must have really hated that car. But I love it, Daddy. Thank you soooo much. You're the best daddy in the _WORLD!_ I'll be really careless with it, I promise, but it won't break down until I'm engaged. Then, my hot fiancé will buy me a car that hasn't come out on the market yet." I almost squealed. But I never squeal. Oh no, Ismella Curry John, daughter of Chief Plumber Gnarly John, _NEVER_ squeals. She is far too mature for that. She also never talks about or to herself in the third person.

"That's nice, Smells." Dad said vaguely. "Oh, and we're home."

"_YAY!"_ I shouted, bounding out of the truck before it was fully stopped. Of course, because it's me, I fell face first into a pile of dirt. I'm always falling, I'm so clumsy. Getting up and making sure no dirt was in my eyes, I looked over at where my new ancient car sat by the curb. I absolutely loved it from the start. It was hideous. The tires were way too big for the small frame and looked to be squeezing out of their fenders. It was some sort of reddish brown color, dotted with rust. The base color reminded me of the color my pants get during my monthlies. One of the windows was broken and a black trash bag was tacked over the open space. The bumpers, hood, and trunk held a number of small craters that made them look something like the surface of the moon. I like moons. Heehee.

"Well... it runs." Dad said, staggering towards the front door with my suitcases and trunk in hand.

"Speaking of runs..." I said. Then, with no further adieu, I rushed past my father and ran into the house, knocking him over in the process. Hope the guy can get my stuff off of himself in time. Whatever, it's not my problem. I've really, really got to go. Plus, I want to be at school early tomorrow because I know that the plot will thicken there. Oh, crap, but this shit certainly won't.

COMING SOON:

Ismella goes to Farts High for the first time. There, she is greeted by the friendly friz-head secretary by the name of Mrs. Coke. After that, she is taught by the likes of Mr. Winecork and Mr. Bill-Board the biology boy... who happens to be a man. Along the way, she befriends the likes of Spike pootown, Sica Manly, Dominica Evers, Borin Badtruck, and Eris Dorky who, though it is hard to believe, is actually a guy. Don't forget, Smella spots the super-sexy family of freaks known as the Drullens. Who are they? Find out next time!

Coming EVENTUALLY: The Toilet Gas: Toilet is not all. Eventually, the series _SHALL_ be complete! The following books will include Mooning You, Eat piss, and Breaking Wind.

END NOTES:

If you really need me to translate just who is who in this mass of messiness now or in the future, well, you're really not all that bright are you? But if you want to know just how the Toilet universe originated, as well as the names of all my little pawnsies... I mean creations, feel free to PM me. If an account you do not have, than you shall still pass. That is to say that I, Rose Bloodthorn, happily insane authoress, accept anonymous reviews. Twilight lovers, I _RELISH_ your flames. _ MWAHAHAHAHA_


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